by Brian Rella
Dad comforting Mom – the good times.
Jessie cherished those memories, and as the nostalgia washed over her, her eyes filled with tears. But she pushed back those memories. She didn’t want to think about her mother or the past. Both had occupied her thoughts enough. It was time to move past this part of her life. She had to.
Despite part of her believing her mom had gotten her comeuppance for letting Steve and Marie into their lives, and ignoring what was going on with her daughter right under her nose, she still had pangs of guilt.
How does a mother do that to a child? How does she ignore the unhappiness and pain of her own flesh and blood? She got what she deserved, the dark voice in her head said.
That’s why Jessie’d had Arraziel fix her. Her mother was broken, after all. Despite her outer beauty, she was ugly and warped underneath her pretty packaging. Why else would she let a bully into her house to beat up on her daughter? Why else would she let a child molester into their home? Now she looked more like her true self: horrid and deformed, just like she was on the inside.
Still, Jessie remembered her mother before her father died. She wondered if there was good left in her that Jessie could have revived with love, patience, and time. Part of Jessie was saddened by what she had done. It wasn’t her mom’s fault any more than it was Jessie’s that her father had fallen off that building and to his death. Could she blame her mom for being depressed? Hadn’t she been depressed too? Hadn’t she cried herself to sleep for months after? How would Jessie have dealt with the death of her own husband?
You wouldn’t have ignored your daughter, drank yourself into a stupor, and let child abusers into your house. You are much stronger than that, Jessie.
That dark, bitter voice of justification in her head won out in her struggle to rationalize what she did. It always came down to her mother’s actions, not her past, or her potential. Jessie was stronger than her mother.
The truth was Jessie would have been raped and physically abused for the rest of her life under her mother’s care. She’d had to do what she did to escape the inevitable.
And no one will ever hurt you like that again, Jessie.
The voice in her head was right. Chicago will be a new start. A do-over. I will start the life I was meant to live and leave the past where it belongs – behind me. I will never look back.
Her boarding pass read row 3 seat A. Jessie found her seat and settled in for the flight. A blanket, pillow, and a small bag full of some toiletries lay in her seat. She moved these aside and sat down. Another flight attendant dropped by with a tray. Jessie glanced up at her. Her hair was pulled back so tight her cheeks looked like they were pinned to the back of head.
“Water, orange juice, champagne?” she offered, lowering the tray.
What kind of woman offers a fourteen-year-old girl champagne? Then she remembered. I don’t look fourteen any more, do I? It made her smile. Looking older would have advantages.
Jessie had never tried alcohol before despite it being easily available in her mom’s house. She remembered her mom drank champagne on special occasions.
This is a special occasion, isn’t it? she heard the dark voice in her head say.
“Champagne, please,” Jessie said. She had never tried it and wanted to celebrate her new start on life.
The flight attendant handed her a slender plastic champagne glass, filled with the bubbling yellow liquid. She sipped it and the bubbles tickled her nose. It was dry and sweet at the same time and she liked it enough to drink most of it before placing the glass down on the tray beside her. As she set the glass down, she noticed buttons on the side of her plush chair and played with them, adjusting the seat until she was comfortable.
Her knapsack was between her legs and she reached down and pulled out the Arraziel book from among the other books of dark arts she had taken from Olga’s bookstore. She placed it cover side down on her chest. The flight would take about two hours and she wanted to finish the book and do a little thinking about her next steps before arriving in Chicago. Should she try to find Pasmet, the demon she had discovered on the map on the back cover of the Arraziel book? Or should she put it all behind her and start a new life? Maybe she could get a job, finish school, and make something of herself.
Jessie glanced around her, suspicious of people looking over her shoulder and seeing what she was reading, but the flight was not full, not in first class at least. She spread the blanket on her lap and fixed the pillow behind her head. Then she opened the book to where she had left off and began to read.
From the corner of her eye she noticed the flight attendant approach, and she snapped the book closed, bringing it to her chest. The tight-faced woman collected the almost empty champagne glass and said, “Ma’am, you’ll need to raise your seat for take-off.”
“Oh,” Jessie said, softening her face and grip on the book. She fiddled with the seat controls until she was sitting upright, then put the book to the side as the plane taxied to the runway, and the captain made pre-flight announcements.
The plane gently rocked Jessie in her chair and she suddenly felt sleepy. The champagne had made her slightly dizzy and she closed her eyes, realizing she hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. She’d been busy sorting things out at the bookstore, covering her tracks, and getting ready to leave for Chicago.
The plane engines roared with a steely whine and the white noise added to her fatigue and drowsiness. As the engines roared louder, sending the plane down the runway, she was pressed back into her seat, and the plane gently lifted off into the air.
Jessie was asleep before the plane leveled off at thirty thousand feet.
She was standing in darkness. There was something moving around her, but it was too vague to make sense of. It was fuzzy, or hazy, like black snow on a breeze, swirling around her face.
Then she saw the eyes. They floated in the air in front of her, on the black snowy haze. The eyes were green, but not like a human’s, or even a cat’s. They were large, oval shaped, and translucent. There was an otherworldly quality to them as they hovered in front of her.
The snowy mist was purple-black and reflective. She reached out and touched it, and it became tinged with fluorescent purple where her finger made contact.
A voice spoke.
“Does this form please you?” it asked, the voice sounding ominous and deep, like the ocean.
Jessie didn’t see a form other than eyes and black snow. She wasn’t pleased or displeased. She was curious.
“What are you?”
The eyes closed and the black snow moved in waves, circled like a cyclone, and took a human form: the form of the tight-faced flight attendant.
“What do you want me to be?” it said.
“Not that,” Jessie replied.
The flight attendant spiraled apart into a cyclone again and took another human form.
Jessie was staring at the image of her dead father.
“Do you prefer this?”
She winced as painful memories surfaced from her subconscious. “No!” she moaned. The image of her father dissipated and returned to scattered black snow again.
The eyes hung in front of her. “Tell me what pleases you, my princess,” it said.
Princess?
Jessie realized she must be dreaming. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. She remembered she was flying on the plane. She must have fallen asleep and this was some kind of psychedelic dream.
Lucid dreaming. Cool.
“Show me your true form,” she said.
The black snowy haze withdrew, spun high in the air on an invisible gust of wind, and grew in size and mass. The eyes remained focused on Jessie, then they closed, and the mass of black snow radiated purple, and the glowing snowy mist took shape.
Jessie heard a rhythmic thumping in her ears. A cadence. A heart beating. The hazy mist took the form of an enormous heart, over ten feet tall. Its valves and chambers pulsed and vibrated with the hypnotic beat. Its flesh was glossy blac
k, accented with violet and lavender; a membrane surrounding the heart made it look slick, wet, and shiny. Veins filled with green blood coiled out from the heart, some supporting it from underneath, and others floating around it like tentacles, waving gently in the air. One crossed in front of Jessie and she saw a mouth at its end, with a circle of teeth around the inside. Fluorescent green blood oozed from the vein’s opening, as the spider web of veins grew in size and number, surrounding both her and the beating heart.
“Nice,” Jessie said.
“I am glad you are pleased, princess,” it said, through no mouth Jessie could see.
“Who are you? Why do you call me princess?”
“I am Nalsuu, the Father of Darkness and Chaos.”
Jessie giggled. Lucid dreaming was cool. Nalsuu. Father of Darkness and Chaos. Metal!
“Well, Father Darkness – or do you prefer Mister Nalsuu? – what do you want from me?”
Nalsuu’s veins contracted, touching her, pulling her into him. The heartbeat grew louder and faster, and a bellowing laugh boomed from deep inside the chambered organ. She felt it rattle her bones, and was suddenly afraid.
Jessie shook with fear. This dream wasn’t cool anymore. It was scary. She felt around for something to hold as she slid toward the heart. She clasped something in her hand and gripped it tightly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain…”
The darkness faded, the image of the heart with it, but the heartbeat hung in her ears and that voice, that bellowing, deep bass voice echoed in her mind.
“We’re experiencing some rough air and we’ll be climbing to try and get above it. Shouldn’t be bumpy for too long. In the meantime, please return to your seats and fasten your…”
Jessie opened her eyes. She was on the plane, the Arraziel book lying on the floor, open, and she was holding tightly to the armrest of her chair.
Her breath caught at the sight of the open Arraziel book at her feet. She reached for it, but the seat belt held her back. She unbuckled her belt and fell to the floor, grasping the book in both hands while trying to maintain her balance.
“Miss,” a stern male voice called. “You must get back into your seat and fasten your safety belt.”
Jessie shot the male flight attendant a look that must have scared him, and the authority he thought he had vanished from his expression. Jessie did as she was asked, never taking her eyes off the flight attendant, who pretended to look away, unaffected. He went back to the galley, drawing the curtains shut behind him, the metal curtain rings raking across the curtain rod.
Jessie grasped the book of Arraziel to her chest and looked out the window at the dark clouds around the plane, the laugh from the heart in her dream still reverberating in her mind.
2
FRANK
October 19, 2015
Beauchamp, Louisiana
The engine rumbled to a stop about one hundred yards from the scene, far enough away not to draw attention. Frank squinted into the red-orange setting sun at the end of the street.
He flipped a Marlboro into his mouth from the soft pack, catching it between his lips. Flicking his Zippo between his thumb and index finger, he popped open the lid, snapped his fingers on the flint, and a flame crackled to life. Lifting the flame to the end of his cigarette, he pulled, and the sweet taste of butane and tobacco filled his mouth. He paused, looking down the white stick of tobacco under his nose. It was bent and crinkled.
Damn soft packs. The soft pack was a southern thing. It had no top, and therefore no support. Cigarettes bent and fell out of the package. Frank preferred a box pack. It had more substance and protected the cigarettes.
He sighed, then drew long on the cigarette, inhaling deeply. He let the smoke sit in his lungs a moment before exhaling it slowly through his mouth in a steady stream. The familiar, calming mix of chemicals mixed with his blood and buzzed pleasantly in his head. He exhaled and the smoke hung around outside his car window in the stagnant air.
No breeze, nowhere to go.
He sighed again and looked back up the street, taking another pull of smoke.
Long shadows stretched across Main Street, Beauchamp, Louisiana. Red and blue flashing lights from the roof of the police cars alternated left, right, left, right. The rotating lights flashed in Frank’s eyes, leaving temporary dark spots in his vision.
A crowd gathered in front of the police tape strung across two police cars that were parked perpendicular to the street. The makeshift barricade kept the pedestrians and press out of the crime scene. Police officers waved their hands and gestured as people murmured to each other in front of the crime scene.
Hands went to mouths as the front door of the bookstore opened and a stretcher guided by two paramedics bounced over the door frame and onto the sidewalk. A lumpy shape the length of a human body was underneath a white sheet. The lump jiggled roughly as the paramedics pushed the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, the wheels folding under the stretcher. Even from this distance, Frank could see the crimson spots on the otherwise pristine white sheet. One of the paramedics stepped into the back of the ambulance, pulling the stretcher all the way in. A police officer joined him in the back of the ambulance, while the other paramedic headed to the front of the car.
An authoritative officer went to the driver’s side window of the ambulance, said something to the driver, tapped the hood, and stepped away.
The ambulance chirped its siren, and people backed away as it reversed and headed toward the blazing sunset.
Someone was dead, all right, and Frank needed to find out who. That meant a trip to the morgue, probably. He googled the address on his smart phone and saved it to memory. He’d be paying a late visit tonight to confirm what he already suspected. Olga was dead. The question was, had whoever killed her found the Arraziel book?
Frank took a final drag from his smoke, rolled it between his index finger and thumb, and flicked it several yards from his car. He turned the key and the Mach 1 rumbled to life. A quick U-turn in the middle of Main Street and he was headed back the way he had come. He needed to find a place to stay tonight. He needed to get some rest before he went out to investigate.
Frank cruised up the street toward the edge of town. He had passed the Beauchamp Inn on his way to the bookstore and thought it as good as any place to spend the night.
Parking across the street from the Inn, he stepped out of his car, put his hands into the small of his back, and leaned backwards. His spine cracked in a few places, releasing the tense muscles from the long drive. He exhaled and slipped off his silver-trimmed, mirrored Ray-Bans, tucking them into the front pocket of his wrinkled, black button-down shirt. His arctic blue eyes squinted in the low light. The dusk was bad on his eyes; he was getting older, and he sighed at the thought of turning forty this year.
The strip of Main Street was forgettable. Store after store looked the same – run-down buildings from a time long past and best forgotten. Peeling white paint and flickering neon signs all told the tale of this blue-collar, backwoods town. All of Main Street looked like this, all except the Beauchamp Inn.
The Inn was the only boarding house on Main Street. It was also the only building that was more than one story. It looked to be in desperate need of renovation and seemed out of place even among the rest of the broken-down businesses. It appeared as if the aging of the rest of the town had started here.
Dark wood siding, weathered, and fragile, looked like it might slide down all five stories at any moment. A squared roof capped the top floor. Dark and grimy windows gazed out onto main street. A black iron fire escape scaled the building to the roof and looked like it stayed on with a few loose screws.
Dim light shone through the sheer curtains of the tall wooden double-door entrance. Tarnished brass handles welcomed guests from the street. It was unique and picturesque in a haunted kind of way.
Frank ran his fingers over his goatee, grazing his mustache, and felt the two-day stubble on the rest of his cheek. His
shoulder-length brown hair hung in his face. He ran his fingers through it, breaking up the knots and tangles. Sweat was slick between his toes, which were cramped in his motorcycle boots. A hot bath and a shave would be nice. A nap in a bed before wouldn’t hurt either.
The fresh air felt good on his marshmallow-white skin, despite being a touch too humid and stagnant for his taste. It was clean, anyway. Cleaner than New York City air for sure, and at least it wasn’t too hot. October seemed pleasant in Louisiana. Slightly humid, an occasional hurricane, but not as hot as summer. Frank didn’t get much sun these days anyway. This job was mostly done at night and had been since he’d started decades ago.
Popping the trunk, he reached into the drag back and pulled out his old cloth duffel bag. Shouldering it, he looked up and down Main Street, then closed the trunk, chirped the alarm, and crossed the street, unconsciously strutting to the front door.
He grasped the brass handle on the left and felt an intuitive chill as he pulled open the door and stepped inside.
A red and frayed rug led to the front desk. It had a brown track down the middle of it from years of use and looked like a hairy, discolored tongue. The wood paneling in the reception area was worn and chipped. It bordered a once-white wall behind the desk that had yellowed and cracked with time. A bell, an empty business-card holder, and a handwritten sign encased in a thick plastic that read No personal checks scribbled in black magic marker sat on top of the worn counter.
A real five-star joint. Frank mused about what the bed was going to do to his back.
No one at the front desk. He wondered if the receptionist had gone outside with the rest of the town to gape at the crime scene at the bookstore. A black crystal figurine in the shape of a deep purple heart with a green eye on a shelf behind the counter made him frown. It seemed out of place in the run-down hotel, and made the hairs on Frank’s neck stand up.
